Graveyard Talks
by Tea55
Summary: Everyone should have a guardian angel. Dean Winchester doesn't agree. Dean/Castiel, set after 4x10, oneshot.


**Disclaimer: **Not mine, Kripke's.

**Rating: **T

**Summary: **Everyone should have a guardian angel. Dean Winchester doesn't agree.

**A/N: **This takes place after 4x10 _Heaven and Hell, _with no spoilers after that episode.

**Graveyard Talks**

Life is weird.

It's one of the fundamental truths of life.

When Dean was four, his chance at normalcy had died along with his mother, on the ceiling of his baby brother's nursery.

After that, 'normal' and 'weird' kind of swapped meanings, and Dean had grown up in a world where ghosts and zombies existed, and demons were – especially one yellow-eyed son of a bitch – walking and talking evil incarnated.

And even though it was a weird life, it was his life, and Dean was determined to live it to its fullest extent. Live fast and take what you can from life, 'cause every day could be your last.

But fate is a bitch who has it in for the Winchesters, and his life went from 'tough shit, but someone's gotta do it' to 'welcome to Hell, Dean, enjoy your stay' in the span of three years.

The most ironic thing is that ending up in Hell wasn't the weirdest thing in his life. Getting out of there, well, that kinda caught him by surprise.

But what came afterwards flipped Dean's world upside-down.

Dean was sure there were some definite facts in his ever-changing world of weirdness, but it was hard to deny the existence of angels when one of them was standing right in front of him, his shadowy wings spread and huge in the confined space of an empty barn.

So yeah, Dean can safely say that his life is weird.

Because not long ago he didn't even believe that Heaven and all that came with it actually existed. And now he apparently became some sort of a Heaven's chosen warrior. Without him having a say in it.

Dean would be a fool not to appreciate getting pulled out of Hell, but he doesn't appreciate being considered a property. Or a fucking puppet on a string.

Just like he doesn't appreciate having an angelic stalker.

********

When it happened the first time, Dean wasn't even aware that something strange had happened; he was too busy trying to keep that damn vampire away from his neck to notice anything out of the ordinary.

Or a knife flying in his direction.

But, thinking about it now, Dean can't believe that he hadn't realized that something wasn't right in the situation where a knife meant for him suddenly changes direction, breaking a few laws of physics in the process, and ends up decapitating the vampire in front of him.

But it had happened in the heat of a battle, and there were two vampires left to deal with, one of whom was in the process of beating the ever-lovin' shit out of his younger brother, so Dean decided to take it as a freaky, but welcome gift, and proceeded to do a little vampire decapitation of his own.

When everything was over, and he and Sam were the only ones left standing – bloody and breathing heavily, but still alive – Dean had looked into his brother's eyes and smiled.

They were both alive, and this was just another ordinary hunt. No Seals or fallen angels, no human monsters or suicidal teddy bears. Just what he's been doing his whole life. Saving people, hunting things. Family business.

It was a moment of peace and familiarity that he so desperately needed in the light of how fucked-up his life has become lately. A moment that could have been ruined by thinking about the strange behavior of a flying knife, so Dean didn't think about it, but allowed himself a moment of happiness.

Even if it was just one moment.

********

When it happens for the second time, Dean starts to feel uncomfortable.

This time they are dealing with the ghost of a man who was murdered by his own wife. A very pissed off ghost. When Dean barely manages to avoid being impaled by a crowbar by throwing himself behind one of the stone pillars of the house that once belonged to one James Wilkins – traveling salesman and wife-beater in life; deranged murderer in death – he decides that next time, he'll deal with the remains, and Sam can occupy the ghost.

And then it happens.

He takes a step backwards, avoiding another swing of the crowbar, but he doesn't see a small glass globe lying on the floor behind him that sends him sprawling on the ground. When Dean's back hits the floor, he instantly rolls to the side, and the crowbar misses him by bare inches this time.

Dean's heartbeat is a deafening roar in his ears, and when he looks up he sees a flash of metal flying towards him, and he doesn't have enough time to feel scared, or to laugh at the irony of surviving a clash between Heaven and Hell, only to be killed by a freaking ghost of all things, when the crowbar, along with the one wielding it, becomes a blazing bonfire, and then… nothing.

It all happens before Dean has a chance to blink.

Picking himself up off the floor, he shakes his head. "Freakin' awesome timing, Sammy," he mutters to himself, grimacing when he feels a flash of pain in his right shoulder.

There's a loud bang, followed by a sound of running footsteps, and Dean barely has a chance to turn before Sam storms into the room, brandishing an iron poker. Dean blinks, dumbfounded, staring at Sam who stops dead in his tracks, his eyes scanning the room.

"Dude, what the hell?" Dean says, frowning. "What's with the dramatic entrance?"

Sam blinks, looking both annoyed and worried. "Where's the ghost, Dean?" he asks.

"What ghost?" Dean asks, starting to feel uncomfortable.

Sam rolls his eyes. "There's only one ghost here, Dean," he says, exasperated. "The ghost of James Wilkins."

"Went up in flames, when you torched his remains," Dean says slowly, his eyes fixed on his brother's face, feeling a cold shiver of dread crawling up his spine. "You did torch his remains, right, Sam?"

When Sam slowly shakes his head, his face a mixture of worry and confusion, Dean feels a leaden weight settle in the pit of his stomach.

"His remains weren't where we thought," Sam says, sounding wary. "That's why I'm here."

Dean takes a deep breath, grimacing. "Then what the fuck happened here?" he says, more to himself than Sam.

And he doesn't really expect an answer because he was here when it happened, and he can't answer it.

But there is one thing he's sure of.

He doesn't like this. Not one bit.

********

Since the incident with the self-combusting ghost, Dean can't shake the feeling that someone is watching him.

Constantly.

He becomes edgy and tense, and the more time passes the worse his mood becomes; he goes from nervous to on-the-edge in the span of a week. And that damn feeling of some unknown presence doesn't lessen. It becomes even stronger.

The worst thing about it isn't that he feels threatened by it. The thought of being in danger from his unknown stalker has never crossed his mind. But he feels exposed and vulnerable, and it pisses him off. He really wants to find this damn bastard and teach him a painful and unforgettable lesson of respecting one's privacy.

Preferably before he goes insane.

Or Sam kills him, 'cause his younger brother was starting to run out of patience for Dean's foul mood and short temper as of late.

So when they discover a possible new case – a series of random and rather gruesome killings in a small town in Colorado – Dean feels relieved. And determined to find out just who had decided that he is a damsel in distress in need of a fucking knight in shining armor.

********

This is bad. _Really_ bad.

It's a thought that keeps on repeating inside Dean's mind. He'd be pissed off at how unhelpful his brain has decided to become, if he wasn't so fucking terrified at the moment.

And besides, his mind was right. This was bad.

This hunt went south the moment he and Sam entered the graveyard in search of their prey, and the hunters and their intended pray have swapped their roles, even though Dean really doesn't have the slightest desire to become a chew-toy for an overgrown lizard.

Also? If they somehow survive this, Sam might kill him just on principle.

They rushed into this hunt, unsure of the true nature of the creature that was wreaking havoc all across Clifton. Dean can admit that it was mostly – well, really all – his fault, and that Sam was right when he advised caution, and Dean can list all those damn truths and regrets in his mind now, but it won't take away the fact that his brother is currently lying unconscious behind him, on the same spot he'd landed when that lizard – not really a lizard, but it looks like one, and since Dean still has no fucking clue what it is, he'll stick with lizard – hit him with its tail.

Or the even more important fact that this creepy crawler with a spiked tail longer than Sam's height, not to mention a jaw full of razor-sharp teeth, simply refuses to die.

This creature isn't like anything they've encountered so far, and it seems almost invulnerable. Almost, but their shotguns haven't caused that much damage, even though Dean can see trails of black liquid that must be the creature's blood adorning the dark-green scales that cover the creature's body.

But the damn lizard obviously wasn't all that used to being hurt, so he stays just outside the reach of the machete Dean holds in his hand. For the moment, Dean doesn't mind the current stalemate, but he knows that he's going to have to think of something soon, 'cause he really doesn't think that it will take long until the lizard decides that munching on Dean and Sam is worth a few cuts.

Dean really doesn't like how long Sam has been unconscious. He turns his head sideways, throwing a worried glance at his brother's prone form, but that one moment of faltering concentration is enough for the lizard.

The creature lashes out with a preternatural speed, and Dean doesn't see the tail coming until it's too late and he's already in the air from the force of the blow. When he lands on the cool grass of the graveyard, Dean's vision becomes unclear, and he has trouble making his body listen his commands, but he'll be damned if he ends up as a chew-toy for the second time. So he clenches his teeth together, tightening his hold on the machete in his hand, and pulls himself upright.

But what he sees isn't a giant lizard crawling towards him.

Dean swallows, feeling a little queasy as his eyes slowly trail over the scattered remains of the lizard that was alive, well and whole only moments before.

_What the fuck is going around here?_

He could deal with telekinesis and burning ghosts, but this lizard was a completely different category of tough, and it took apparently less than a minute for Dean's self-appointed savior to make him into mincemeat.

And how the fuck did he manage to do it?

Dean grimaces, wiping away the blood from his face, and then it happens: he sees him. A lone figure of a man standing in the distance, near one of the tombstones.

Dean knows him, knows who – _what_ – he is, and there's a small voice inside his head that insists that he's always known who his mysterious savior was. That one day he'd look up and see a dark-haired man dressed in an awful tan trenchcoat, looking at him with unblinking blue eyes.

Dean stays rooted to the spot, his eyes fixed on the still figure in the distance.

He can't make himself react. His mind is blank, short-circuited from the sheer amount of contradictory thoughts that were swirling inside it only a moment before. He knows – somewhere on the outer edges of his consciousness – that he should do something, anything, but then Castiel makes the decision for Dean by simply disappearing into thin air.

In the same moment, Dean's numbness shatters and white-hot anger takes its place.

Dean blinks, his hand unconsciously tightening around the weapon in his hand, and he actually makes a step forward, towards the place the angel was standing only a moment before, but then a muffled groan from behind him pierces through the red haze of anger around Dean's brain, and he remembers. Where he is, and why was he here in the first place.

And with whom.

He's crouching next to his brother in a matter of seconds, helping him get up.

"I feel like I've been hit by a truck," Sam groans, rubbing his forehead with the heel of his hand.

Dean snorts, keeping Sam steady. "Just a big lizard, Sammy, but with one hell of a tail."

Sam grimaces, opening his eyes. "I don't think it's actually…" he begins, but then his eyes land on Castiel's handiwork, and his face pales a little.

"So you found a way to kill it," he whispers, his eyes alternately darting from Dean to what was left of the lizard and back again. "Or should I say overkill it?"

Sam's eyes are sharp as they hold his gaze, worry, suspicion and confusion written plainly across his features. Dean opens his mouth, determined to tell his brother the truth, but his mouth and his mind obviously have a misunderstanding, 'cause what should have been 'it wasn't me, it was Castiel' ended up sounding slightly different.

"Well, yeah, someone had to do all the work while you were taking your beauty sleep," Dean says, grinning.

Sam rolls his eyes.

"One of these days, Dean, you'll realize that your jokes are funny only in that twisted mind of yours," he says, exasperated, but Dean can see a beginning of a smile tugging at his lips. "And since you've been so creative with killing that thing, you should be the one to get rid of it, because I'm not touching those entrails. I'll wait for you by the car."

Dean blinks, realizing that he's just been had. By his baby brother. Who is currently walking away from him, leaving him with lizard remains. He throws a murderous glare at Sam's retreating back.

"You're such a baby, Sam, it's just lizard guts," he yells after his brother.

"Your mess, your clean-up," Sam yells back without turning around.

Taking a deep breath, Dean closes his eyes, forcing himself to stay calm, but it's difficult since he's currently pissed off at both himself and that damn winged bastard. At himself for being a stupid idiot and not realizing who his friendly neighborhood stalker was, and at the angel… well, for everything.

Including disposing of lizard entrails.

********

Dean is back at the Clifton's graveyard

He knows that if anyone could see him now – leaning on a tombstone in the middle of the night – they would probably run the other way, especially if his current mood is reflected on his face. But he doesn't care how he looks; all he cares about is settling this stalking matter.

Dean can't really explain how he knows it, but he's certain that Castiel will show up. And that is another matter that freaks the hell out of him. This certainty that he somehow knows Castiel. There's already too much familiarity, far too many ties between him and the angel who dragged him out of Hell for Dean's peace of mind.

No matter the hostility and distrust on his side, or threats and demands on Castiel's.

So when he feels a shift in the air beside him, just a soft breeze, he's both relieved and annoyed even before he turns and sees the familiar figure standing a few steps away from him.

"Hello, Dean," the angel says softly, and his tone has the same effect on Dean as waving a red flag has on a bull.

Before his mind has a chance to stop him, Dean has the angel pressed against one of the tombstones, his hands fisting Castiel's coat.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Dean hisses, his face only inches from the angel's.

Castiel regards him calmly, making no move to free himself from Dean's grip. "Following my orders," he says, his voice impassive.

"Well, fuck your orders," Dean forces through clenched teeth, hating how composed the angel looks, and hating his words even more. "I don't care about your precious orders, and I as sure as hell don't want you following me everywhere. If I wanted a pet, I'd buy a dog, 'cause I'm not into birds."

The words are already out of his mouth when Dean's brain decides to remind him that, no matter the human package, there is nothing even remotely human about Castiel.

"You should show me some respect. I dragged you out of Hell; I can throw you back in."

Dean swallows, his anger giving way to dread. He's seen – and done – some pretty fucked up and downright scary things in his life, but the memory of those words is still one of the rare things that can make his blood run cold.

But what's done is done, and besides, if those heavenly sons of bitches expect him to jump at their every command, or bow his head just 'cause they suddenly decided that he has some higher mission in life, well, they can go fuck themselves.

That still can't make his heartbeat turn to normal, especially when the expression on the angel's face hardens, and Dean can't help but think that maybe his pride isn't worth an eternity spent in Hell. But the words of apology stay stuck in his throat, and Dean clenches his teeth, tensing his body, preparing himself for the worst.

The worst doesn't come. There's no lightning or holy fire, or whatever angels do to those who offend them. Instead, Castiel just reaches out, wrapping his hands around Dean's wrists, pulling them off his coat. The angel's grip is gentle, but firm, and Dean becomes almost viscerally aware of the angel's strength.

How there's virtually nothing Dean can do to him. He can't harm or break him. He can't do anything to the angel that Castiel doesn't allow him to do.

And that thought scares him more than the prospect of returning to Hell.

"You are making a mistake thinking your opinion is relevant in this matter, Dean," Castiel says, still holding Dean's wrists, and now Dean feels trapped, by both the angel's hands and the almost mesmerizing gaze of his blue eyes. "Your well-being is what matters, and I intend to keep you alive, with or without your consent."

Dean blinks, still unable to tear his eyes away from the angel's. Castiel's words have a note of finality to them, and Dean is too stunned at the moment to make himself properly react.

But then Castiel releases Dean's hands and disappears, leaving Dean to stare at nothing, feeling even more confused and pissed off than he was before meeting the angel.

********

Castiel keeps his word.

Not that Dean thought he wouldn't.

The angel stays out of sight, but sometimes, when Dean looks in the right way, he can see a man-shaped shadow or a flash of tan trenchcoat when he and Sam are hunting, and the more time progresses the easier it is for Dean to accept Castiel's presence.

It's not like he can take out a restraining order against an angel.

And on account of what? Trying to protect him? Repeatedly saving his life? Even in Dean's mind it sounds ridiculous, but nothing in life comes free, even having a guardian angel. Plus, Dean isn't ready to pay the price that Castiel's boss has for loaning him one of his angels.

But the game continues, Dean ignoring him, and Castiel playing his part of a guardian angel, and it almost becomes comforting. The knowledge that there is someone seriously powerful backing up the Winchester brothers, but as always, there is that other shoe, and this time it comes in the form of a dream.

********

_He's back in Hell again._

_He can hear screams, and pleas, but those are not his screams, it's not his voice that begs for mercy._

_Everything is red around him, his hands, the flames, and the body that lies spread in front of him. _

_Not to mention the red haze of anger and hate that's clouding his mind._

_Another scream pierces the air when he lowers the knife, drawing an intricate pattern on his victim's chest. _

_But something is wrong, he can feel it. _

_His hand is shaking, and it hasn't been shaking for what seemed like an eternity, he's been so good at this for so long, but now he has to stop, 'cause there's some new emotion rising in his chest, and he doesn't know what it is, just that he doesn't like it, it hurts, and he doesn't want to hurt anymore._

_Dropping down onto his knees, Dean doubles over, and when an anguished scream pierces the air around him, it takes him a moment to realize that it had come out of his own throat._

"_Please, please, please, please…," he begs, but doesn't expect any help, there's no help, no mercy, just this, just pain, and fear, and anger, and he wants to disappear, to stop feeling. _

"_Dean, wake up," a soft voice murmurs gently, but there's a hint of steel underneath it, and when he looks up, Dean sees light, soft, warm, golden light that surrounds a figure with one hand outstretched towards him. "Come, take my hand."_

_Slowly, afraid that if he moves too fast the man will disappear, Dean rises to his feet._

_When his hand touches the stranger's, it's feels like coming home. Safety, protection, forgiveness, love…_

_The stranger pulls him into his embrace, and that's when Dean notices them – wings. _

_Milky white and huge, they wrap around them, and the last thing that Dean sees is a pair of sky blue eyes. He opens his mouth, one word – a name – wanting to spill forth, but then everything goes black._

"Castiel…" Dean gasps, waking up.

It takes him a moment to get his breathing under control, the memory of his dream fading, but he can still feel the soft touch of feathers on his skin, and that's why he decides that it's about time to have another chat with his winged guardian.

Because he can deal with Castiel's meddling in his hunting business, but his mind is off limits.

But when he falls asleep for the second time that night, he dreams of feathers and golden light, and when he wakes up he's more scared than ever. And it's because of the simple fact that when he woke up, for the first time since his father's death, Dean had actually felt at peace.

_Content._

********

"Stay the fuck out of my head," Dean demands when Castiel appears beside him.

They are once again standing in the middle of a graveyard, and Dean isn't sure why, but when he took the Impala for a ride, he ended up driving to the nearest graveyard, realizing what he was doing when he was already searching for a parking space.

Castiel tilts his head, just looking at Dean for one moment.

"I may not be human, but I know my boundaries," he says in a low voice. "I have not taken any liberties with your mind, Dean."

Dean clenches his teeth. The son of a bitch is going to make him say it.

"Oh yeah, and how come I'm dreaming about feathers lately?" he asks, gritting his teeth. He just can't decide whether he's more pissed off at the angel or at himself for being embarrassed as hell. "And I don't mean poultry."

"Would you be rather dreaming about Hell?" Castiel asks bluntly.

Dean closes his eyes, grimacing. He hates the bastard, but he hates him just a little bit more when he's right. "Of course not," he snaps, opening his eyes. "But I don't want you in my dreams either."

A strange expression flashes across Castiel's face. It looks almost like confusion.

"I appeared in your dreams only once," he says solemnly. "All those other times I have merely blocked the memory of Hell, making you feel safe. Your mind has chosen how to manifest that feeling by itself."

Dean blinks. Then blinks again. And again.

So it's official. He's lost it, 'cause no matter what he might think about Castiel, he's sure that the angel doesn't lie.

Which means that he's telling the truth, and Dean so doesn't want to end this train of thought, 'cause it enters a very dangerous territory of him starting to trust Castiel.

So he does what he does best when he's freaked out. He attacks.

"Listen, you winged freak," he says, taking a step towards Castiel as he feels the anger rising in his chest. He welcomes the anger. It's safe and understandable. "I don't care if I never sleep again, but stay the fuck out of my head."

Castiel blinks, an expression of annoyance crossing his face. "I will not stand back and let you suffer needles torment just because of your stubbornness," he says tersely.

Dean snorts. "It's my head and my torment, so stay the fuck away from it." He twists his mouth into a bitter smile. "You're contradicting yourself, your holiness. What about that 'no perching on my shoulder' policy?"

"That was before I knew you, Dean," Castiel says softly, a small half-smile stretching his lips. "If I ever saw someone in need of an angel on his shoulder it is you."

"I've been taking care of myself my whole fucking life," Dean whispers. "And you're too late. Where have you been when I really needed you? When my parents needed you?"

Castiel blinks, frowning.

"I am here now, Dean," he says softly. "It should count for something."

"Yeah, it means you and your boss need an errand boy," Dean says. "But guess what, I'm not interested."

Castiel's face becomes a hard mask.

"Free will is a great gift, Dean, but it is not a luxury a soldier can afford," he whispers firmly. "And that is what you are. A soldier."

Dean narrows his eyes. "We'll see about that," he says, grinning. "And I know you're not invulnerable, so if you don't keep your distance from me, I'll find a way to hurt you."

Castiel only looks at him, his blue eyes calm and unblinking, and suddenly Dean starts to feel self-conscious. He feels like the angel is reaching inside his head, shuffling through his memories and feelings, and he can't do a damn thing about it. He can't even tear his eyes away from the angel's.

But then Castiel smiles, shaking his head, and the spell is broken.

"That is one of the biggest problems with you, Dean," he says, still smiling that damn smile that Dean wants to tear from his face because it makes him seem like something he's not. It makes him seem human. "You rarely know what is good for you."

With that, he disappears, leaving Dean angry and frustrated, once again staring at thin air.

And it's fucking unfair.

How can you have a decent argument with someone who can blink himself out of existence at any given time?

********

The next time he sees Castiel, it's not night, and they're not standing in the middle of another graveyard. It's noon, and they're inside his and Sam's motel room, but the biggest difference is that they're not alone.

Like every other time when Uriel is present, Dean thinks he can actually feel his animosity and disgust. He's just not sure whom the angel dislikes more, him or Sam.

And Dean doesn't know where to look.

His instincts are telling him to keep his eyes on Uriel, but his eyes keep coming back to the other angel. Dean has no clue if it's because of what has been happening lately, or because Castiel looks so tired. Almost fragile.

Can an angel get tired or sick?

He knows – by Castiel's own admission – that they can be hurt, and even killed, but it comes with the territory of being 'the Lord's army', but the weariness and shadows on Castiel's face – and it's strange how it's Castiel's face in Dean's mind now, not the face of some unknown man – look unnatural. Too human.

Castiel has stopped speaking, and is now looking at Dean as if expecting him to answer. The problem is, Dean has no clue what the angel was saying.

Fortunately, Sam comes to his rescue. "A book?" he asks, sounding incredulous. "What would you need a book for?"

Uriel narrows his eyes.

"You dare to question us?" he sneers. "You should consider yourself lucky that we're letting you live after all you have done."

Dean hates Uriel. And it's not just a figure of speech. But before he has a chance to say anything, even though punching Uriel in the face is what he really wants to do, Castiel beats him to it.

"That is enough, Uriel." Castiel's voice is hard and cold, and there's a note of 'don't fuck with me' in it that Dean has never heard from the angel, not even when he was facing Alastair. Not even when he was threatening with tossing him back to Hell. "We have come here to seek assistance, not judge and argue."

The look of outrage on Uriel's face is priceless.

"Castiel, one of these days you will step too far," Uriel says in a low voice, and it's both a threat and a warning, and Dean somehow knows that whatever Uriel is talking about now, it's now for the first time. "You have already been wasting enough of…"

"Uriel," Castiel cuts him off, turning to face him. Dean suddenly thinks that maybe he and Sam will get to watch two angels duke it out. "This is not the time and place for this. You know why we are here."

Uriel stays silent for one long moment, visibly fighting for control, and Dean isn't sure is he relieved or disappointed when the expression on Uriel's face settles into a hard, unreadable mask.

"Just remember that I have warned you, brother," Uriel says and disappears.

Castiel stays still, looking with weary eyes at the spot the other angel was occupying only a moment ago.

Dean blinks, and the fact that he's not enjoying that for once it's Castiel who's been left to stare at nothing speaks volumes for how confused and even a little freaked out he is. Throwing a quick glance at his brother's face, Dean sees the same emotions reflecting in Sam's eyes.

"So, uhm," Dean says, clearing his throat. "What's with the dissension in the ranks?"

Castiel almost reluctantly turns his head in Dean's direction. "Uriel and I do not agree on certain matters," he says, keeping his voice blank, "but that is beside the point."

It really isn't beside the point for Dean – hell, aside from selling his soul, he'd be willing to make a few deals just to find out what those certain matters are – but he doesn't think that Castiel is in a sharing mood. He never is. So he lets it go.

"And about that book?" Dean asks. "Why don't you get it yourself? Or is it too low of a job for an angel of the Lord?"

Castiel sighs, the look of weariness deepening on his face. "The place where it lies is forbidden for our kind," he says slowly. "It would be sacrilegious for us to tread on that ground."

"What are we talking about here?" Dean asks, frowning. "A demon-infested nest, or…?"

But the answer doesn't come from the angel.

"I don't think it has anything with demons," Sam says, his eyes set on Castiel's face. "Am I right?"

A small smile stretches the angel's lips, but the smile disappears as quickly as it appeared.

"You are correct, Sam," Castiel says. "It is a tomb."

Dean blinks, not sure if he heard Castiel right.

"You want us to go grave robbing?" Dean asks, incredulous.

"It is not quite that simple, Dean, but in essence, yes," Castiel says softly.

Dean just stares at him. At the angel who pulled him out of Hell, but then threatened to throw him back in. At the angel who asked him to leave a town so he and his attack dog could raise it to the ground, and then sat with him in that very same town, confiding in him. At the angel who admitted to being a heartless son of a bitch, but then refused to allow dreams of Hell to plague him.

Castiel confuses and scares the hell out of him, and more often than not he wants to kick his ass, but there are times when Dean feels like he sort of, almost, likes the bastard.

Like now, when he'd basically put Uriel in his place. And he did it because of him and Sam.

"We'll do it," Dean says firmly. "But it better not go on our list of sins."

"I will contact you later regarding the location," Castiel says, smiling, and the shock of seeing a real smile on the angel's face is almost enough to make him miss his next words. "Thank you, Dean."

With that, Castiel disappears, but this time Dean isn't upset for ending up staring at thin air.

********

"Please, Sam… Sammy, wake up," Dean begs, holding Sam's head cradled against his chest.

Sam doesn't obey.

His body stays still, his face looking so fucking empty, like it did that night in that godforsaken town, and Dean can actually feel his heart starting to tear at the seams.

Not this, anything but this again…

And Dean realizes that he never was in Hell, not really, because this, now, the feel of his brother's lifeless body in his arms, is Hell.

It was supposed to be just an ordinary hunt, but then the fucking witches came into play, and Sam was hit by some damn spell and now he's not waking up. And like the first time, there's nothing that Dean can do, he's fucking lost and terrified, and this can't be happening again, it can't.

But it is.

Tears are sliding down his cheeks, and Dean would really like for the whole world to just explode, or go up in flames, because this isn't fair. Sam dying once was one time too many. No one, not even Dean, deserves to have his whole world shattering around him for the second time.

"Sam, please," Dean whispers, rocking himself back-and-forth, holding Sam's body tightly against his, "_please_."

Dean wants to scream and curse the God that apparently exists, but obviously doesn't give a damn about his family, but all he manages is another broken please.

And when an angel appears in that precise moment, it shatters something inside Dean's chest.

Dean wants to tear him apart with his bare hands. He wants to ask where the fuck he's been, wants to beg for help, but he can't make himself do anything but stare at the angel's grave face.

But it seems that Castiel knows what to do.

He doesn't waste time, simply reaches after Sam's lifeless body, trying to extract it out of Dean's grip, and Dean instinctively tightens his hold, not wanting to let go of his brother.

"Trust me, Dean," Castiel whispers, his blue eyes blazing with something that Dean has never seen in them, and Dean does.

It's one of the most difficult things he's done in his life. Placing his trust – and with Sam's body, his whole world – in Castiel's hands.

Dean remains kneeling on the ground, staring numbly at the angel as he takes Sam's head between the palms of his hands, and when Castiel bows his head, for one insane moment Dean thinks that he's going to kiss his brother, but all Castiel does is whisper in a language Dean has never heard, and the words that spill past Castiel's lips sound like music.

A white light envelops his brother, getting stronger with every word that comes out of Castiel's mouth, and when Sam arches of the ground, gasping, it's the most beautiful sound Dean has heard in his life.

Castiel gently lowers Sam's head down on the ground, and stands up. Dean is on his knees next to his brother in the blink of an eye, wrapping his arms around him, pulling him up.

"You fucking jerk," he whispers, blinking away the tears gathered in his eyes. "I should kick your ass for doing this to me again."

Sam's only coughs, wrapping his arms around Dean in response.

Later, when Dean feels that it's safe to release his hold on Sam, he turns to thank the angel, but Castiel is nowhere in sight.

********

Dean is nervous, and it's pissing him off.

But he can't be angry now, not when he needs to thank Castiel for saving Sam's life, and that only makes him angrier. And more nervous.

All in all, he feels like he's about to crawl out of his skin, and he seriously considers turning back and forgetting everything that includes putting the words_ Castiel _and _thanks _into the same sentence. A part of him is sorely tempted to do just that, and keep the things the way they are now – Castiel doing his guardian angel routine and Dean deciding not to acknowledge it.

But he can't. He owes a debt to the angel that he can never repay, no matter what was the reason Castiel had for saving Sam. So in the light of the fact that Sam is alive and well, if slightly confused and annoyed about what has happened to him, the least Dean can do is thank the angel for saving his brother.

That is, if the damn winged bastard ever decides to show up.

He's been standing in the middle of yet another graveyard for over an hour now, and the more he waits, the more nervous he becomes. When another hour passes Dean starts to worry, and that as sure as hell doesn't do his mood any good, so when Castiel finally appears beside him, the first words out of Dean's mouth aren't the words of gratitude.

"Where the fuck have you been?" Dean demands.

"I came as soon as I could," Castiel says, and if the angel himself hadn't admitted the fact that he and his kind are emotional eunuchs, Dean would think that Castiel was hurt by his words. "I do have other obligations, Dean."

Dean inwardly kicks himself. Way to say thanks, Dean.

Frowning, he realizes something. Not counting the last night and all that happened, Dean hasn't seen Castiel since the day he came – thankfully unaccompanied – for the book Dean and Sam had retrieved. The angel had been a no-show for a while now. Even during the hunts.

"And what about keeping me alive, and all that other crap you said?" Dean asks, suddenly annoyed, pushing to the back of his mind all the thoughts about the real purpose of this meeting. "Had your boss found another victim? Am I off the hook now?"

A look of annoyance and helplessness flashes across Castiel's face.

"I have never met or seen a man more infuriating than you, Dean," he says, and even in the dim light Dean can see him clenching his jaw together. "First you threaten me when I try to shield you from danger and harm, and now you are upset when I am not available to you all the time." Castiel shakes his head, sighing. "I wish you would make up your mind."

Dean stares at the angel for one moment, a sudden realization shaking him down to his very core.

He had made up his mind. But his mind had apparently chosen not to inform Dean of the fact that Castiel's presence is now required twenty four-seven.

Pushing that thought to the back of his mind – and boy, was it getting crowded in there – Dean forces himself to relax. "Yeah, well, I'd just like to know where I stand with you," he says, proud at how firm his voice sounds. "'Cause you keep changing your tune."

Castiel tilts his head, and his expression softens somewhat.

"Nothing has changed, Dean," he says solemnly. "You are still regarded as important in the upcoming battles." Quieter, he adds, "Your life is still precious to us."

Something in Castiel's tone, in the way he said those last words, has the strange effect on Dean. Strange in the sense that while his chest swells with warmth, there's cold, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Dean blinks, swallowing against the dryness of his throat. "Thank you," he blurts out, inwardly rolling his eyes.

_Smooth, real smooth, Dean._

"For saving Sam's life yesterday," he adds, at Castiel's blank stare.

"You need not to thank me, Dean," Castiel's voice is a barely audible whisper now, even in the absolute peace and quiet of the night in a graveyard. "As long as I can protect you, I will do so."

When Castiel disappears this time, Dean has a problem with making his heartbeat return to normal, and he's probably starting to experience the first signs of insanity 'cause he's sure he heard the words no matter what lingering on the end of Castiel's sentence.

_After _the angel was already gone.

********

Dean's life continues its normal routine after that meeting. The only thing that has changed is the fact that now Castiel's presence is the part of his normal routine.

The angel still keeps his distance from him and Sam on the hunts, staying invisible even to Dean, not to mention Sam, who still has no idea about Castiel watching over them. But as is always the case in Dean's life, fate interferes.

When they crash a summoning ritual, they are outnumbered.

Even with Ruby's knife at their disposal, along with Sam's freaky powers – and Dean still can't stop feeling cold and almost physically ill when Sam uses them – Dean is beginning to think that they're not going to make it, but then Castiel appears, and, well, after that display of power and cold fury, Dean considers himself very, very lucky. 'Cause pissing off Cas? Seriously not a good idea.

Castiel doesn't stay long, just takes a cursory glance at the scattered bodies that were hosting demons only a moment before his arrival and nods at him and Sam, disappearing before Dean can make his brain react with some other thought than how freakin' awesome it was having an angel on their side.

How freakin' awesome it was having Castiel on their side.

When Dean finally draws his eyes away from the mess the angel has made of the warehouse the ritual was supposed to take place in, he meets Sam's eyes. His brother looks at him with hurt and angry expression, and Dean knows he shouldn't have kept Castiel's presence secret from Sam.

"So how long have you known?" Sam's voice is hard and cold when he asks, and Dean can't blame him.

Hell, he knows how he felt when he found about Ruby.

"Since the lizard," Dean says, keeping his eyes fixed on Sam's.

"It was three months ago," Sam says, incredulous. "You're saying that you knew about Castiel being responsible for all those lucky breaks for three whole months, and you didn't tell me. Why? Isn't this something that concerns me as well?"

Dean grimaces, his chest clenching painfully from the sheer helplessness that he now feels. He understands Sam, and he'd give anything to be able to explain to Sam just why he has kept Castiel's presence secret from him, but even he has no fucking clue why.

Other than the insane thought that Castiel is somehow his problem.

_His_ secret.

_His angel_.

"I'm sorry, Sam," Dean says, clenching his teeth together. "Can you just accept it, and let it go? Just this once, don't make me explain something I don't understand myself."

Sam blinks, confusion and worry replacing anger and hurt on his face. "Dean, you know how dangerous they are." He waves his hand in the direction of dead bodies lying on the ground. "Just look what Castiel can do. And who knows that one of these days he won't turn from helping us to going against us? It's not like they hadn't threatened the both of us already."

"Not Cas," Dean says firmly, without giving it a second thought.

Sam blinks, taken aback, and Dean can appreciate the sentiment because he feels the same way.

He'd successfully managed to scare himself now.

Dean isn't sure where his belief comes from, the belief that Castiel would never harm him, them, but he's sure. He supposes that this is as close to having faith in something – someone – as he'll ever come.

"How can you be sure?" Sam asks, and Dean can see a pleading look in his brother's eyes, and it's fucking ironic that it's him who stands in front of his brother, asking him to accept a fact on blind faith alone.

"I just do," Dean whispers. "I don't trust Uriel as far as I can throw him, and I don't give a damn about Heaven and all its other winged soldiers, but I trust Cas."

Sam stands silent for one long moment, and now Dean is sure that he sees envy deep inside Sam's eyes, and it hurts. Knowing how much believing in angels and all they were supposed to stand for meant to his brother. Knowing how little of that faith he has left.

Sam doesn't say anything, juts turns on his heel and walks away. He stays silent when they leave the warehouse and all the way to the car, but then he turns, looking with something akin to hope at Dean.

"That night when I…" Sam's voice breaks on the last word, but after taking a deep breath, he continues: "When I was dying, who brought me back?"

"Cas," Dean whispers, smiling.

Sam blinks, and for one moment his face stays frozen, only to be replaced by a look of relief and happiness, and Dean thinks that when he meets the angel again, he'll have to say thanks for the second time. This time for healing a part of his brother's soul.

But he's wrong.

********

"You should not feel guilty," a soft, sympathetic voice comes from behind him, and Dean closes his eyes, biting down on his lower lip. Impotent anger and guilt are poison coursing through his veins, and the angel is only making it worse. "There was nothing you could have done to save that girl, Dean."

Slowly, Dean turns, clenching his hands into fists.

"But you could," Dean says, his voice cold and hard. "If you tried. But I suppose people don't mean shit to you and your kind if they can't be used in some holy battle."

"It is not my place to decide the fate of those of your kind," Castiel says, his face and his voice now entirely blank, and Dean envies him. Envies the angel's lack of emotions. "Her time had come, and there was nothing you or even I could have done about it."

Dean narrows his eyes. "She was tortured and bled dry," he hisses, taking a step closer to the angel. "You knew that we were trying to save her, but you kept your distance. She died in the worst imaginable pain, and you have the nerve to stand here and talk about heavenly bureaucracy."

Castiel's face stays impassive, his eyes narrowing just a fraction of an inch.

"My hands are tied in more ways than one when it comes to interfering with human lives," he says firmly. "Or their deaths."

Dean just looks at the angel for one long moment.

He's not been this angry with him for a long time. Everything that had happened since the moment he'd looked up from the remains of a giant lizard-like creature and saw Castiel standing in the distance had brought him to a point of almost forgetting that Castiel is an angel, and not a man with awesome powers.

But now, standing and looking at Castiel's calm, completely unperturbed face, Dean is painfully aware of how not human Castiel is.

He snorts, his lips twisting bitterly. "So it's all about the rules, and not that you don't give a damn about any of us," Dean says, shaking his head. "How does it feel, Cas? How does it feel to not feel anything at all?"

Castiel blinks, frowning, but stays silent, and Dean turns away from him.

He's been an idiot. And he has no one but himself to blame. He'd let the gratitude he felt for Castiel saving Sam's life influence him, and where did it bring him? Standing in the middle of a graveyard trying and failing to explain the importance of a human life to a heartless, emotionless being who values only the orders that were given to him.

Dean only wishes that his rude awakening didn't hurt this much.

It feels like he's lost someone dear to him, and for the life of him he can't understand how his original animosity and distrust became grudging respect and trust.

And it all died along with a girl who Dean couldn't, and the angel wouldn't, save.

Shaking his head, Dean takes a deep breath, preparing to leave the graveyard when he's stopped by a soft whisper.

"You are mistaken, Dean," Castiel's voice is gentle, sounding almost pleading, and no matter how much he wants to ignore the angel and his words, and simply leave this graveyard and the angel standing behind him, Dean can't.

Almost against his will, Dean turns, meeting Castiel's eyes, which are wide-open and honest. "Angels know joy and sorrow, we know guilt and regret," Castiel says, bowing his head slightly. "Even love," he adds, in a low voice.

"That's not what I've heard," Dean says coldly. "Even from you."

Castiel lifts his head, his eyes blazing.

"We do feel, but you keep judging us as we were human." Castiel's voice is a strange mixture of fire and ice, and it makes Dean shift uncomfortably on his feet. He's not afraid of the angel, but he's not used to seeing him this, well, emotional. "We are not."

"Trust me, I'm not about to forget that ever again," Dean says, hating that the bitterness that laces his words isn't born out of disdain, but disappointment and loss. "The Lord's army and all that crap. Orders come first, and fuck all the rest."

Castiel blinks, and there's one moment of surrealism where Dean is sure he sees raw, naked pain on Castiel's face. But then Castiel's expression shifts, settling into his usual impassive, if slightly sorrowful expression.

"You know nothing about us, Dean," he says. "It would seem that you and Uriel have a lot in common."

Dean blinks, his mind going blank from the unexpectedness, not to mention audacity, of Castiel's words.

"I'm nothing like that sanctimonious dick," Dean forces through clenched teeth when he regains the ability to speak, his voice shaking with fury. "The only thing we have in common is a desire to beat the crap out of each other."

Castiel tilts his head, a small half-smile plying on his lips. "That is where you are wrong," he says slowly. "You, very much like Uriel, insist upon clinging to your resentment and prejudice. If you want to judge, Dean, then judge us fairly."

"Fairly? Fine by me," Dean says, his voice sharp. "Halloween and Anna, explain that."

The smile leaves Castiel's face, and Dean feels dark satisfaction at how the angel actually winces at his mention of Anna.

"I have already shared my thoughts about Halloween with you. I did not lie when I said that your decision brought me great relief."

"You're not helping your case by reminding me that you were willing to destroy an entire town and kill everyone in it," Dean says, his eyes narrowing. "No matter your feelings on the subject."

Castiel winces again, closing his eyes momentarily, and for the first time since they've met, Dean feels like he has the upper hand in their twisted game of cat and mouse.

But it doesn't bring him the satisfaction that he thought it would. Only a bitter taste of loss.

Sighing, Castiel opens his eyes, and now he looks like he did that day when he and Uriel came to ask him and Sam for help. Tired, dejected, human.

"You should consider yourself lucky, Dean, that you have the luxury of feelings without having to always think of the bigger picture," Castiel says, his voice reflecting the expression on his face.

"What the fuck is it supposed to mean, Cas?" Dean asks, exasperated, forgetting that he's supposed to be angry at the angel. "Just once I'd love it if you'd cut it with the cryptic bullshit, and just said what's on that damn, angelic mind of yours."

"Feelings and blind obedience do not go hand in hand," Castiel whispers, his eyes glinting in the dim light of the graveyard. "We – I – have been created with the sole purpose of obeying orders, but sometimes following an order means going against our wishes. Our feelings."

Dean swallows, suddenly afraid. He feels like he's standing on the verge of an abyss and with every word that slips past Castiel's lips, he's getting closer to the edge, but he can't do a damn thing to make himself move, and Castiel won't stop talking.

"The price of disobedience is to fall from grace," Castiel's voice is a soft whisper, but to Dean it feels like the shrill sound of the angel's true voice. It grates at his mind, making his chest clench painfully. "You tell me, Dean, if you had to choose between your feelings and all that you are, what would you do?"

"I'd go to Hell if I had to," Dean says firmly, keeping his eyes fixed on Castiel's. "And what would you do?"

Castiel's face stays frozen for one long moment, his eyes glued to Dean's face in an expression of awe and astonishment. It's an almost hungry expression, like the angel is looking at him for the first time, making all the hairs on Dean's neck stand up and his heart beat wildly against his chest.

Not for the first time this evening, Dean begins to wonder is Castiel using some angel mojo on him, because while he wants to turn around and run as far away as he can from him, what he actually does is stand rooted to the spot, staring.

After what seems like an eternity to Dean, Castiel blinks, as if waking up from a long slumber, and bows his head.

"I would come for you," he whispers softly, more to himself than Dean. "Orders or no."

With those words, Castiel disappears, pushing Dean over the edge of the abyss and into a completely new world.

A world where an angel would fall for him.

********

Dean knows what the meaning of the word irony is, but enough is enough.

Castiel is nowhere to be seen after their last graveyard meeting – and it's already been two weeks, three days, and Dean doesn't know how many hours – but apparently the fact that the angel isn't anywhere near him doesn't make him any less present in Dean's life.

If anything, the angel's absence only makes it worse.

Dean supposes that this is how being haunted feels like. His only problem is that he's being haunted by a living, breathing angel, and there are no remains for him to torch so he'd finally get that fucking image of Castiel's bowed head out of his mind.

Not to mention the bastard's parting words. 'Cause no matter how hard he tries, Dean can't forget what Castiel had said.

_I would come for you. Orders or no._

Dean supposes that the fact that he hears them all the time now, like a soft echo playing on repeat inside his mind, shouldn't surprise him. The fact that he's doodling them on napkins, realizing what he's doing only when the whole surface of the napkin is already covered with them, is slightly more troubling.

But what scares the hell out of him is the meaning behind those words. The power they give him. No man should ever have that kind of a power, but Dean can't help but feel an almost ferocious thrill racing through him every now and again. It's not like everyone gets to hear an angel's pledge of loyalty, promising salvation even at the cost of his own damnation.

It's a vicious circle of confusion, fear, thrill and worry that Dean has been stuck in since that night on a graveyard, and the fact that Castiel refuses to show up and explain himself just adds frustration and helpless anger into the mix.

And as if that's not enough to make his life a living hell, poisoning his waking hours, the dreams that come each night are worse. Or more accurately, a dream.

Just one recurring dream in which he's sitting on a park bench with Castiel sitting beside him. They don't talk; they don't even look at each other, but the feeling of belonging and contentment that the dream brings is what Dean supposes Heaven is like. And every damn time that he wakes up from it, his first thought, that one unguarded and unchecked thought before his brain kicks in with its self-defense mechanism, is to go back to sleep.

Go back to Castiel.

The worst thing is that Dean knows that he is the one responsible for that dream, and that it isn't one of Castiel's comfort dreams. That apparently his fucking mind decided that safety, belonging and happiness didn't equal having another life, or having his parents alive and well, but having his own personal guardian angel.

And it did it at the same moment his guardian angel decided to drop off the face of the Earth.

So yeah, Dean can safely say that he knows what irony means.

But it still surprises him that when an angel finally decides to grace him with his presence, it's not the one he wanted to see.

It's Uriel.

********

When Uriel materializes in his motel room, looking pissed off and disgusted by Dean's very presence, Dean's mind goes from 'oh, fuck, I'm going to Hell again' to 'Sammy's not here, thank God' in the matter of microseconds, but then he realizes something, and his stomach sinks with dread.

"Where is Cas?" Dean asks, getting up off the bed.

"That is none of your business," Uriel sneers, managing to deepen the look of disgust on his face. If not for the feeling of dread twisting his insides, Dean would take a moment to appreciate the expression on the angel's face. He was used to seeing that look on many faces in the past, but Uriel had really taken it to new heights. "And show some respect, you insolent whelp. Castiel is an angel of the Lord, not one of your pitiful kind, so refrain from using that bastardization of his name."

"Fine," Dean grits out, hating to indulge Uriel even in this, but Dean has self-preservation instincts, and being inside a room with Uriel is very much like being inside in a room with a rabid pit bull. And now there's no Castiel to hold his leash. "Where is Castiel?"

Something flashes inside Uriel's eyes, making Dean's blood run cold.

Hate, it looked almost like hate. But why would Uriel hate him? Disgust he understood, but hate was far too personal. And reserved for those equal to you.

Uriel as sure as hell never thought of him as an equal.

"Not here, and that is all you need to know," Uriel's voice is a barely audible whisper, and for the first time since he's known him, Dean is honestly afraid of him. But then the angel blinks, his face shifting into his usual mask of disdain. "We require your assistance."

Dean blinks, taken aback by the abrupt change in the conversation. "What?"

"I said that your assistance is required," Uriel growls, glaring murderously at Dean. "There is a…"

"Wait just one moment," Dean interrupts Uriel in mid sentence, his fear taking a backseat to his anger. "What makes you think I'll do anything you ask me to?"

"Because I can turn you into less than a speck of dust."

Dean just grins at Uriel's growled threat, allowing himself a moment of petty satisfaction at the sight of impotent fury on the angel's face.

"But you won't, right?" Dean says, his grin widening at Uriel's involuntary wince. "I'm just guessing here, but if you had the permission from your boss upstairs to do it, I'd already be less than a speck of dust."

When Uriel stays silent, visibly clenching his jaw together, Dean snorts. "I never thought I'd say it, but God bless your orders," he says, growing serious. "And now you're going to tell me where Castiel is."

"Listen to me, you worthless waste of flesh," Uriel hisses, taking a step closer, but Dean holds his ground, his eyes fixed firmly on Uriel's. "If you think that you can demand anything of me, you're sorely mistaken."

"I'm not demanding anything, I'm proposing a deal."

Uriel looks at him as if he were a snake in the grass that he yearns to crush under his foot. "Angels do not make deals with worthless scum."

"Well, you need this particular worthless scum," Dean says coldly, "so if I were you, I'd get off my high horse and listen to my offer."

When Uriel stays silent, Dean decides to take it as a yes. "You tell me where Cas is, and where he's been lately, and I'll do what you want me to."

Uriel stays silent, regarding him with hard, malice-filled eyes.

"What makes you think you have any right to know about Castiel's whereabouts?"

"Because he's supposed to be my guardian angel."

Those words are out of his mouth before Dean has a chance to think about them, but then he's suddenly flying across the room, his back colliding painfully with the wall.

Dean blinks, trying to clear his vision, but then he feels strong hand gripping him by his shirt, and lifting him up as if he were a puppet.

"You worthless piece of human trash," Uriel growls, pressing Dean harder against the wall. Dean swallows, too shocked and disoriented to put up a fight, wondering if he's finally pushed the angel too far, not realizing just what was in his words that was so offensive. He'd said so many other things to Uriel that were far more insulting. "Angels are not made for protecting your unworthy existence, and Castiel has already paid for his reckless behavior of constantly watching over you."

And with that, Uriel releases Dean, who, without the support of the angel's hand, slides down onto the floor.

He feels sick. There's bile gathered in his throat, and a leaden weight in the pit of his stomach, his chest is constricting painfully, and he can't fucking breathe.

But the worst are those damn words, bouncing off the walls inside Dean's mind, becoming louder with every passing second.

_Castiel has already paid for his reckless behavior…_

Slowly, as if in a daze, Dean pulls himself up. "What's happened to him?" he asks, his voice sounding unnatural to his own ears.

Hollow. Numb. Dead.

Distorted images of Castiel's face twisted in agony, or worse yet, empty and frozen in death, flash inside his mind's eye, and the feelings of loss and pain brought by them could almost rival the ones he felt holding Sam's lifeless body in his arms a lifetime ago.

Uriel stays silent, looking at him with unreadable eyes, fury and hate that were twisting his features only moments before now completely gone, replaced by a hard, emotionless mask.

Dean closes his eyes, suddenly feeling tired, cold and hollow, and wanting nothing more than to wake up and find that this was all a bad dream.

"I'll be your damn errand boy, Uriel," he whispers, opening his eyes "but I need to know."

But Uriel stays silent, and just when Dean is ready to beg the bastard, Uriel's cold voice fills the room. "Castiel was injured in a battle and is now recuperating," he says blankly. "And remember your words; I will hold you onto them."

When Uriel disappears, Dean stays rooted to the spot, looking at the now empty room, wondering is happiness supposed to feel like someone has ripped open a hole inside your chest.

********

Uriel stays true to his word, and Dean keeps his own.

When Uriel appears, he stays only a moment, just enough to bark out the directions to yet another tomb that needs to be desecrated, and Dean practically itches with the desire to ask the question that was buzzing inside his head like a mosquito on speed since yesterday.

_How is Cas?_

But Uriel disappears before Dean has a chance to even open his mouth, and when he's left staring at empty space, Dean actually considers trading his soul for the chance of ripping the bastard to pieces with his bare hands.

Or for the chance of seeing Castiel.

But in the end, Dean has to accept that there's nothing he can do now. Just wait and hope that angels have good doctors – or whatever is the angelic version of doctors – and that Cas wasn't hurt that bad.

And he can accept it, if only because the fact is that he has no choice in the matter, but it doesn't mean that he has to like it, 'cause he seriously hates feeling this powerless and scared and so fucking guilty. Because somehow, according to Uriel, Cas being hurt is Dean's fault, and that isn't a thought he's willing to even consider, let alone accept.

Dean just wants this nightmare to stop, and to see Castiel with his own eyes.

They don't even have to talk; hell, in the light of all recent revelations concerning the angel, Dean has no clue what to say to him, but he needs to know that he's alive and well, and not lying somewhere in pain, or dead.

Like he did in Dean's last night's dream.

And that's not a dream he's willing to have ever again.

Dean can recall it with painful clarity. Every detail, every hollow feature of Castiel's human face is a dark stain on Dean's mind, and all he has to do is close his eyes to see familiar blue eyes open and staring at nothing.

He doesn't want to think about it. Doesn't want to think about Castiel, or Uriel's words. If he could, he'd prefer not to think about anything, but that's not possible, so he chooses the next best thing.

He goes to find Uriel's damn book without telling Sam.

********

Dean decides that he's going to kill Uriel.

But first, he needs to deal with two – there were three, but thank God for Ruby's knife – demons eying the book in his hand greedily.

"You know, if you're so desperate for good literature, you could always join a library," Dean says, his eyes fixed on the dark-haired demon that looks like the leader.

"You know you don't stand a chance, even with that knife, so why don't you give us the book and we'll kill you quickly?" the leader says, grinning maliciously, but there's a clear note of fear in his eyes as they glance at the blade in Dean's hand.

Taking a step back towards the tomb he left only moments ago, Dean grins. "That's your idea of bargaining?" he says, tightening his hold on the knife. "Sorry, no deal."

The expression on the demon's face twists into that of pure malice. "Your loss."

The echo of his words hasn't even died down, when the second demon lunges after Dean, but Dean manages to evade him, driving the knife into the demon, but the knife gets stuck inside him and he falls on the ground, wailing and clutching the hilt of the knife now protruding from his side.

Dean has only enough time to think 'oh, fuck' before he's pressed against the stone tomb, staring at the dark-haired demon's grinning face.

"I'm really going to enjoy this," he whispers into Dean's ear, his face set into an expression of evil glee... which transforms into an expression of surprise and terror only seconds before dark smoke leaves his mouth, and the body that was pressing Dean's against the tomb falls down on the ground.

Dean blinks, frowning, then throws a quick glance at the second demon, not surprised when his eyes catch sight of a body lying on the ground.

Swallowing against the sudden dryness of his throat, Dean takes a step forward, unsuccessfully trying to make his heart to calm the fuck down, his eyes frantically scanning the graveyard.

Hope swells inside Dean's chest with every irregular beat of his heart, and he can't stop his hands from trembling, feeling like his whole fucking life depends on finding out who had saved his ass just now.

Dean hastens his steps, clenching his jaw together but the graveyard stays empty, no matter how desperately Dean searches. The small spark of hope inside his chest turns into frustration and helpless anger, and Dean starts to consider possibility of accepting that maybe he has more than one stalker when he sees him.

The solitary figure of a man wearing a tan trenchcoat standing beside a tombstone.

And just like the first time, Dean's mind freezes.

Dean just stands, unable to move or even form a conscious thought, his eyes glued to the still figure in the distance, his heartbeat a deafening roar in his ears. When Castiel disappears this time, Dean's body relaxes, and for the first time in three weeks he can breathe freely, without having to feel like there's a knife stuck inside his heart.

Sighing, he decides that he's sick and tired of graveyards.

********

"You look like crap," Dean says as his eyes slowly trail from Castiel's head to toe and back again.

It wasn't what he wanted to tell the angel after three weeks of worry, anger and confusion, but then he took a closer look of his pale face and body that seemed leaner than the last time he saw Castiel, realizing how whatever has happened to the angel, somehow has had an effect on his vessel as well.

Castiel sighs, taking a seat next to Dean.

"Up until recently I was also feeling accordingly," he says softly, his lips curving slightly upwards.

Dean frowns, not sure whether or not that was Castiel's attempt at making a joke, when he suddenly realizes something.

He was reliving his dream.

The one with him and Castiel sitting on a park bench.

All that lacked was the feeling of peace and contentment that usually came with that dream, 'cause right now? Dean felt nowhere near peaceful or content. More like nauseous, confused and self-conscious. The phrase 'like being on a first date' seemed appropriate, but also inappropriate for whole shitload of reasons.

"So, what happened?" Dean asks, carefully keeping his voice as disinterested as possible. "Uriel said that you were injured."

"That is correct."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Come on, Cas," he says, exasperated. "Don't make me ask for every detail. You were gone for more than three weeks and I was…"

Castiel blinks, frowning when Dean abruptly cuts himself off.

"You were what, Dean?" he asks, his voice soft.

"I was worried, okay," Dean snaps, angry at himself for admitting it, and at Castiel for making him say it. Getting up off the bench, he grimaces. "I was worried," he repeats in a low whisper, more for himself than Castiel, and hearing those words somehow makes them more real.

More dangerous.

"You should not worry about me, Dean," Castiel says after a moment of silence. "I have survived many battles and many injuries much more grave than the one I received in the last battle."

Dean shakes his head, pressing his lips together at Castiel's soft, reassuring tone.

"Uriel said it was my fault," he says, turning to look at the angel. "That you got hurt because of me."

Castiel's eyes widen in shock, a startled look flashing across his face before settling into his usual calm expression.

"Uriel has difficulties with accepting your role in the war we are waging," Castiel says carefully, standing up. "His opinion is affected by the dislike he feels towards you."

"Cas, why do I have the feeling you're lying to me?"

"I have never lied to you."

"So when you saved my life, when you saved Sam's, life," Dean whispers, taking a step closer to Castiel, "even when you made the nightmares go away, that was just you following orders?"

Castiel blinks, opening his mouth, but then he shuts it, bowing his head.

"No, not really," he sighs in defeat. "My duty is to watch over you, but not to that extent."

"What's with the stalking routine then?" Dean demands, gritting his teeth. "Why play my guardian angel if that's not what you were ordered to?"

Castiel slowly lifts his head. "Because your life is precious, Dean," he says solemnly.

"You've said it already," Dean growls, exasperated, frustrated and needing to know just what this thing is between him and Castiel, because he's fucking tired of Castiel's half-truths and cryptic bullshit, not to mention his own confusing emotions regarding the angel as of late. "Holy warrior, upcoming battles, decisions… I've heard it all already."

Castiel blinks and tilts his head, regarding Dean carefully, his face drawn into a frown.

"You misunderstood me, Dean," Castiel says slowly. "Your life is precious to _me_."

Dean blinks, feeling the world around him shatter and rearrange into something completely new, and for the life of him he doesn't know how to react.

"Why?" Dean asks – demands – after a moment, not caring how pleading his voice sounds. "Not long ago you were willing to toss me back into the pit, and now suddenly my life is precious to you. What changed your mind?"

"I got to know you."

"You don't know a thing about me," Dean says in a low voice, narrowing his eyes.

"I know you, Dean, perhaps even better than you know yourself," Castiel says softly, coming to stand only a step away from Dean. "You are forgetting that it was me who pulled you from Hell. I have seen your soul."

Dean swallows against the bile gathered in his throat, suddenly feeling sick.

"Then why am I still here?" he asks, his lips twisting into a sneer. "You've seen me in there; you know what I've done. Why don't you smite me? Isn't that what angels do to sinners?"

Castiel's face grows stone-cold. "Hell is not a place that shows mercy, Dean. It is designed to break and twist all that is good and clean," he says firmly. "What you did in there was unfortunate, but not unexpected."

Dean shakes his head, sure that he heard the angel wrong. "Unfortunate? Not unexpected?" he says, his voice caught between hysteria and incredulity. "I tortured souls for ten fucking years and enjoyed every second of it."

"I am aware of everything you did while in Hell, Dean."

Dean blinks, his chest tightening with shame and guilt. "Then how can you want anything to do with me?"

Castiel shakes his head, taking a deep breath. "You are your own worst enemy, Dean. Why can you not accept that you are forgiven?" he asks, sounding tired and frustrated. "The Lord has singled you out of all other human souls. Do you think yourself a better judge of character than the Father of all Creation?"

"Ten years, Cas. Do you know how many souls that is? How much blood on my hands?"

"You tried," Castiel says firmly, his blue eyes blazing. "For thirty years you stood up to that abomination."

Dean snorts, shaking his head.

"But I caved in the end," he says dejectedly. "I'm no better than those monsters I'm hunting."

"Listen to me, Dean Winchester," Castiel says resolutely, gripping Dean's face between the palms of his hands. "You are a good man. You have spent your whole life surrounded by death and evil so others could live in blissful ignorance of what lurks in the darkness of the night. You also spent thirty years withstanding torture and pain, refusing to give in to Alastair's demands."

Castiel takes a deep breath, still holding Dean's face in his hands. Kind of redundant considering that Dean had no intention of moving. Hell, if his life depended on taking a step away from the angel, or simply drawing his eyes away from the blazing blue flames of Castiel's eyes, Dean would be nothing more than a dead body beneath Castiel's feet.

"You, Dean, are a strong and a brave man, and I would go back to Hell for your soul if I had to, but you have brought a piece of Hell back with you, and you are stubbornly clinging to it," Castiel whispers fervently, his warm breath caressing Dean's face. "It is about time to let it go, or so help me God, Dean, I will kick your ass."

Dean blinks, a thousand different thoughts colliding in his mind, while his chest literally hurts with the sheer force of the contradictory emotions that are battling against each other.

The whole world narrows down to the simple fact of Castiel's hands on his face, with the angel's words still resonating inside his mind, and Dean wants to do something to make the world normal and understandable again, because he feels like he's falling and he needs something to hold onto.

So he does the first thing that comes to his mind.

He reaches out and pulls Castiel's head down into a kiss.

The world doesn't shatter around them as they lips touch, even though the realization that this was what he wanted for a long time – for too fucking long – shakes Dean down to his very core, but then Castiel's lips part under his, and Dean doesn't think any more. Just feels.

The kiss is clumsy and desperate, but Dean doesn't fucking care. All he cares about is the warmth and heat and taste of Castiel. He drinks it greedily, not wanting to let go. He threads his fingers through Castiel's hair, keeping his head place, deepening the kiss.

Dean has no idea is this his final step towards damnation, but he doesn't care. He doesn't care about Heaven or Hell. All he knows is that this feels right. More right than he ever felt about anything in his life.

When he reluctantly pulls away, panting, he keeps his hands on the back of Castiel's head, just as the angel's hands are still cradling his face.

"What was that for?" Castiel whispers hoarsely, his face a mixture of wonder and amazement.

Dean blinks, the sight of Castiel's swollen lips and wide blue eyes distracting as hell, especially up this close.

But yeah, that was the question, wasn't it? What was the kiss for?

Dean stays silent, his throat constricting from the sheer force of the emotions that are wreaking havoc in his chest, but it's not because he doesn't know the answer.

It's because there are too many answers.

For pulling me out of Hell… for saving Sam… for saving me… for keeping me safe… for believing in me… for not giving up on me… for not dying…

There are too many answers, but in the end, Dean chooses the simplest one.

The one that holds them all.

"It's because I like you," Den says, his mouth quirking upwards. "Wings and all."

Castiel smiles at that. A wide, warm, real smile that has no place on the face of a heartless son of a bitch, but then again, Cas is anything but heartless, but Dean doesn't get the chance to point out that fact to the angel, 'cause Castiel lowers his head, claiming his lips, and Dean forgets all about making a point.

This kiss is different from their previous one.

It's gentler, their tongues caressing one another, but there's power and need in the way Castiel's hands clutch at his face, trying to almost melt them into one being.

This kiss is all about claiming and promises of more, and when Castiel breaks the kiss, Dean has to swallow a small whimper of protest.

"What was that for?" Dean asks, grinning.

"That is because I also like you, Dean Winchester," Castiel whispers gently, pads of his thumbs caressing Dean's face. "Far more than I should, but still less than you deserve."

Dean's heart skips a beat at the words, at the look of naked longing in Castiel's eyes, and it fucking amazes and scares the hell out of him that an angel is looking at him like that. Like he's the centre of Castiel's world.

It's breathtaking to be the object of such intense affection, but both his heart and his mind are okay with it, so Dean does what his body demands.

He pulls Castiel's head down, but before he has a chance to kiss the angel, a strange, frustrated expression passes across Castiel's face and he disappears, leaving Dean to clutch nothing but thin air.

Dean blinks, confused and annoyed and horny as hell, but then he smiles.

The next time he sees Cas they're going to have a chat about his little disappearing acts. Right after the angel explains just where he learned to kiss like that.

Touching his lips, still tingling from Castiel's kiss, Dean shakes his head.

Life is weird.

But that doesn't necessarily mean that it can't be fucking awesome at the same time.


End file.
